The End Starts Here
by poi922
Summary: A continuation of the S4 finale…one of those waiting-till-next-season fics that will surely be AU once the new season start. (POV various; Team Machine; post S4, pre S5)
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Pulling the metal gate aside, Finch hobbles forward and approaches the young woman waiting impatiently inside the subway car. And how unfair that she's not even breathing hard! While she had continued to sprint onward, he'd been slowing to a snail's pace ever since they'd arrived safely in their private tunnel. At that point he'd bottomed out his energy reserves, his body declaring "no more!" to any attempt to move faster than in slow motion.

It takes a herculean effort just to move his legs for even those last few steps to the car.

Samantha Groves - and he certainly prefers that to any of the colorful monikers he's heard Detective Fusco use - reaches out as he lurches through the doorway. She stretches out her arms, though not to him, but for the attaché in his grasp...that small, unassuming case which currently houses his most ambitious, and to him, most mystifying innovation he's ever created!

He watches her sink down on the nearby bench and place the case on her lap, turning it on its side with shaking fingers. His onetime enemy, but somehow now a cohort in this fight against Samaritan, peers nervously at the corner of the precious case and for several seconds fixates on the small light, as though to prove to herself she's not just hallucinating its welcome glow.

"She's there! She's safe…and so are we!" she breathes, finally glancing up and beaming at him.

But he simply can't respond, his body _and_ mind rebelling against any further interaction while he struggles to fill his lungs after their harrowing flight into the underground passageway. Until now he'd hardly noticed his trembling limbs or his weakened leg, but having been ignored too long, the latter is belatedly starting to scream with a vengeance for subjecting it to such unusual and strenuous activity!

He taps his overcoat with a shaky hand. Ah! The bottle of pain meds is still in his pocket, though Lord knows how it managed to stay put during that marathon run! For that he's supremely grateful, given the certainty he'll be experiencing even more severe pain when his adrenaline boost levels off and his body finally realizes it's safe.

"Did you hear me, Harry? She's still in there!"

Pride is evident in Root's voice as she shakes back a mass of tangled hair, running her hands over the case with a lover's soothing strokes. She hesitates briefly and frowns at a small blemish on the hard cover. They had made it through without catching a bullet. Apparently the briefcase had not.

But then her smile is back, in full force. "She was right as always about this case…it's impenetrable!"

Finch hears the words, but they barely register as he turns to focus anxiously on the entrance to their lair.

…..

Against all odds they had somehow managed to elude Samaritan's agents. Against all odds, somehow managed to flee through a storm of gunfire, a hail of bullets, a virtual Armageddon in the making…and reached the safety of their underground hideout.

Sandwiched between Root taking point, firing her pistols with both hands, and Reese bringing up the rear with his Def Tech launcher, he'd stumbled along, expecting at any moment to feel what would likely be hellish pain caused by a well aimed bullet. Or an accidentally lucky one.

And he, who'd always abhorred firearms, was now in the position of once again owing his life to his friend's practiced skill with these armaments of destruction, as the whizzing sound of various sized pellets targeting them like a swarm of angry wasps filled the air as they fled for their lives.

He'd never in his entire existence moved as fast as he had during those terrifying moments, his brain gearing up for the instinctive fight or flight response…and thankfully opting for the latter. His body went along with the charade that he had no infirmities to hamper him in a race for life as he powered on, feet slamming into the concrete, coattails flapping behind him.

Fear being _such_ a powerful motivator...and adrenalin the most effective pain killer of all!

Putting distance between themselves and that intimidating row of SUVs, they'd dodged from parked car to parked car, kibbles of broken windshields and windows raining upon them as they zigzagged along the street and through several alleys - until finally reaching nearby Chinatown.

And with every twist and every turn, Finch had braced himself for the thud of a bullet hitting flesh. If not his, then that of his fellow fugitives...

He'd tried hard not to dwell on the number of innocents that may have been caught in that firestorm as Samaritan's goons - now also on foot – shot indiscriminately whenever Reese held back to draw their fire. And that latter situation caused him almost as much anxiety as the gunfire itself!

It was understood of course that John's actions helped ensure he and Root could race forward with a better chance of _not_ catching a bullet in the back, but he'd also known it greatly upped the odds that his past employee - and friend - would be gunned down.

Thus each time Reese had stopped following them, Finch had felt compelled to glance back, practically running backwards to assure himself that John would catch up. And the ex-op predictably yelled at him to keep running, ignoring the volley of bullets that sped toward him when he failed to fire his own weapon.

 _You always did like a challenge, Mr. Reese…_

That last sprint had been the most horrific, as he'd staggered down steps that marked the entrance to a barber shop. John had stood at the head of the short stairway and having discarded the launcher for his pistol, picked off their enemies one by one, his opponent's bullets tearing through the Chinese characters painted on signs that bracketed the steps.

As bullets ricocheted off the building to permanently pockmark the brick façade, Finch had glanced around, horrified to see the shower of brick chips and mortar spraying onto the ex-op's coat. If only one slug found its mark…

Samaritan agents were kept occupied dodging Reese's fire for the precious few seconds it took Finch and Root to reach the basement entrance. But their pursuers had followed as soon as John had abandoned the stairs and the thugs had chased the group into the underground passage, discharging their weapons with abandon.

As the fleeing trio raced down the corridor there had been not only the danger of being in direct line of fire, but the possibility of catching a bullet glancing off the thick walls. Even more so, off the various metal pipes that serviced the building above. The volleys had continued unabated; Greer's men were, if nothing else, persistent.

With apparently limitless ammunition…

"John! Keep up!" he'd shouted, slowing his headlong flight when Reese had stopped once again. But Root had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him around a corner into a basement storage area, sprinting toward the seemingly unremarkable vending machine that hid the secret door to their sanctuary.

"Don't stop, Harry!" She had ordered, tucking the pistols in her belt and inserting hastily retrieved coins into the vending slot. With practiced ease she'd keyed in the required code, fingers flying over the number pad. "Over here…now!" She tore open the two doors in quick succession, ignoring the resultant avalanche of calorie laden snacks spilling on the floor from the first one.

He'd glanced once more behind him, but there had been no tall individual coming around the corner. Only dust swirling in the shadowy area to the continued eruption of gunfire…and the occasional distant cry as a bullet successfully found its target.

"But…but…John…" he'd stammered, and with one last fearful glance behind him, had followed Root into the safety of their underground refuge, stumbling and lurching like the walking dead in popular zombie films. Until finally reaching the subway car where he'd come to a halt.

And remained there.

…..

"Come on Harry! We need to start planning how to get her on line again," Root urges, turning back to the silent figure standing immobile in the doorway of the car. She notices for the first time his shaking hands, his stark expression…and that his attention remains fixed on the entrance to their hidden tunnel.

Following his line of sight, she sighs. "Don't worry so, Harold. The big lug can take care of himself; he always has. And they won't be able to find us here." She strokes the case once again. "We made it!"

Still, Finch continues to watch the entrance, counting the seconds ticking by, gauging the passing of time to the fast beating of his heart and picturing a life bleeding away. He stands watching the entry door, _willing_ it to open, _willing_ it to reveal the person who started out as a valued employee and gradually became a trusted friend. One who protected them all for so long.

Surely this can't be the end! There is so much work yet to be done! The Machine to rebuild, an offensive to be strategized, battles to be fought… How can they afford to lose even one more member of their team? How can _he_ afford to lose one more friend?

But the door remains shut. His mind offers him no answers, only a snippet of verse from the past, a stanza learned as a child and thought long forgotten:

 _Tick by tick, the moments fleeting, measure out the passing day;  
While the rapid pulse is beating, slips our precious life away._

Root is still watching him, but he doesn't turn, his voice cracking on his response.

"We made it? No. Not all…"


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

" _Hey, boss! We got one…still alive! Whadda ya want us to do with him? Snuff him?"_

"I am not "boss", Mr. Gatsby", is the laconic reply. "You will refer to me as Mr. Greer. As for your prisoner, am I to assume then that the rest escaped?"

" _Yeah, b….Mr. Greer. Musta gone through the basement to the other exit."_

"And you didn't think of covering that exit?" Greer keeps his temper in check though his grip on the phone tightens measurably. When dealing with the lesser apt of Samaritan's army, it does no good to shout. It is what it is…but this person he knows will soon be receiving a pink slip. Or more appropriately, a red one.

" _Uh…."_

"Never mind. Describe your captive, please." If he's real lucky, he will have gotten the one person most valued by Samaritan. And then they can eliminate that particular irritant once and for all.

" _Tall, dark hair. Wearing a suit, black overcoat…"_

The hapless henchman is prepared to offer more detail but he quickly derails that effort _._ "Ah. Harold Finch's bodyguard. Good. Very good." Not the captive he'd hoped for, but this one will do! "Bring him to me. And Mr. Gatsby? Don't damage him. I have a use for our guest."

 _._

 _..._

 _._

So how many times has he been in this position?

Too numerous to count, he thinks, testing once more the straps that keep him in the chair. But…no give at all. It's really too bad rope has been displaced by zip-ties as a binder of choice. With rope there is at least always the possibility of creating some slack…

He sighs, knowing it was inevitable not all of them were going to make it to safety, but still wishing it had been otherwise. At least Finch is safe - he hopes - and between himself and Root, it's better she survives than he. After all, she'll be able to help Harold rebuild the Machine, whereas that type of work has never been a part of his skill set. All he would be able to do is hand her a screwdriver if needed.

There had been a fleeting moment, a swiftly closing window of opportunity to follow his colleagues around the corner to the basement storage area. But Samaritan's thugs had come too near. They had followed him so closely he had feared if he didn't keep them at bay, there would've been the possibility they'd have seen Finch and Root at the entrance to their secret hideout.

No way could he let that happen; it would have meant the end for them all!

So he'd stayed behind, knowing that barring his being able to kill off every single Samaritan agent following them, there would be no safe haven for him. He'd fired his weapon until he was out of ammunition, then in the universal sign of surrender, had dropped to his knees and placed his hands behind his neck. He had thought they would simply put a bullet in him at that point…the expected end to a life of violence.

But no, here he is, once again a prisoner! This time held by Samaritan's overseer, the redoubtable Mr. Greer. Who is now approaching him…

"Mr. Riley…or I should say…Mr. Reese. You are indeed are hard man to corral. And I say that with a great deal of respect for your abilities. Or is it perhaps just luck?"

Greer picks up a nearby chair, places it opposite the ex-op and sits, crossing his legs with the air of a country gentleman preparing for a leisurely chat with an associate.

"Though I rather wish I'd managed to snare your handler instead," he continues. "But no matter. I was successful in getting Harold Finch to come to me once before by negotiating a trade for someone important to him. I fully expect that gambit to work again."

Greer leans forward slightly and placing both feet on the floor, looks the ex-agent in the eyes. "Unless of course you would like to tell me now where he is…?"

Reese returns the stare, keeping his face devoid of expression, knowing the man can talk all he wants but until Greer can find Harold in order to make his demands, his threats are as empty as the room.

"Ah, I know what you must be thinking. How is he going to deliver his ultimatum if Harold Finch can't be found. Yes?" Greer continues to survey the bound man before him, the ex-op's lack of response apparently not fazing him as he continues smoothly. "Well, I will simply need a messenger then, won't I? Someone who knows where the elusive Mr. Finch is hiding and who can inform him that I am entertaining his employee as my guest…for the moment."

Greer rises from his chair and motions to someone behind the ex-op.

Seconds later Reese hears a door open, then close as Greer stands waiting expectantly. The ex-op refuses to turn his head and continues to stare holes in the Englishman. He's in no mood to give this Samaritan groupie the satisfaction of showing any curiosity on his part. In fact, picturing his hands around that geriatric neck is proving to be an satisfying pastime!

But as a black garbed figure comes into view, those visions evaporate and he has to forcibly control his reaction. For now standing next to Greer, is Sameen Shaw! Not dead, not harmed, and seemingly _not_ a prisoner. Or least as far as he can tell.

"Surprised Mr. Reese?" Greer taunts. "I suspect you are, given the last view you had of your friend here, your assassin-in-arms, was a rather bloody one." Smugness rolls off the Englishman in waves as he turns to the young woman beside him.

"And what about you Ms. Shaw? Did you think Harold Finch's pet was invincible?" Greer smiles, reminding Reese of a scythe's curvature. The Soul Harvester's legendary tool... "You would be wrong then wouldn't you?"

Greer carefully moves his chair away from Reese and with hands in his trouser pockets, stands before the ex-op, exuding the supreme confidence of a card sharp holding a royal flush. Reese stares daggers at the older man, visions of choking the life out of the Samaritan handler threatening to return…

But he mentally waves them away and instead studies his colleague. Shaw has made no comment and only fleeting eye contact with him. Something is not right here! Under the circumstances, a smile, or even a smirk is not expected, but he did anticipate that she at least show some kind of recognition!

Instead there is only that vacant stare...

"Now you may be wondering what your friend is doing here, especially since we have taken the precaution of restraining you, but not her," he begins in silken tones. "What? Not curious?" he continues, as Reese keeps his face expressionless.

Greer stares at his captive a few moments, studying his prisoner's blank face, the absence of any reaction. "Ah, of course! The infamous operative training." He rocks back on his heels, satisfied with his analysis. "Well, I will enlighten you anyway. Ms Shaw here has seen the error of her past allegiance to Harold Finch and his Machine. She has accepted that such devotion is folly, leading only to failure. And death."

Greer walks around the silent woman, a man admiring an expensive purchase. "So Ms Shaw has decided to join the winning team instead - that of Samaritan. _And_ carry a message to Harold Finch now that we have another incentive for his surrender." He stops his pacing and places himself in front of Reese once more.

"Of course attempting to capture Mr. Finch by force is always an option, especially if you prove to be difficult. You see, with a little more…persuasion…Ms Shaw here will simply give us the directions to his location."

At that Reese shifts his attention from Shaw to Greer.

"Oh. I see you don't believe me," the older man smirks. "Well then. Shall I demonstrate where her loyalties now lie?" He walks the few steps to a nearby table, the only furniture in the vast room other than the two chairs. Pulling open a small drawer he removes a pistol, and with great fanfare, hands it to Shaw.

The former Control agent accepts the gun without hesitation or comment, holding it in her hand briefly before dropping her arm and giving all the appearance of a lackey waiting further instructions.

"Ms Shaw, I have decided we won't need Mr. Reese after all. Please aim that weapon at his head….and pull the trigger."

Reese watches Shaw start to raise the pistol, lining it up for a shot.

So is this how it's going to end…in the hands of his enemies, far from his friends, and shot by one he had considered a trusted team member? With eyes flat and lifeless, Shaw certainly seems prepared to put a bullet in his brain.

However, if Greer expects his prisoner to thrash and moan, or plead for mercy, the man is destined for disappointment! He's been in the game a long while now, and this is not a unique situation. Been there, done that. Have survived worse.

Reese relaxes in his chair.

Having faced Death so many times in the past, it's lost all power to intimidate him. Instead, it has become almost like an old acquaintance - not a friend, certainly - but one that is very recognizable, even if not exactly welcome.

A familiar cold is seeping into his bones, his expression remaining neutral as his breathing slows. This is the calm that has always preceded any action which could result in his demise. With years of training and mission experience coming into play, operant conditioning has taken over and time slows to a crawl.

He silently observes Shaw, her actions now seen as though through the sharp focus of a sniper's scope, but in slow motion. In fact, he can see the muscles in her arm tighten, almost envision the molecules of air being disturbed as she moves the gun level with his forehead.

A lazy tendril of thought unfurls in his mind…that even after all those sessions with a therapist, he can still slip so effortlessly into that familiar mental garb, the one of a trained assassin. Still assume that black ops persona that allows him to face serenely and without emotion the prospect of life's end…his end.

His shrink would likely declare he's simply hiding from his true feelings, or playing out a death wish in an unconscious effort to punish himself for past transgressions. But he knows the real answer. It's because a long time ago he deliberately chose this risky game…chose to sit at the table and test his skills, his luck, against the house. Against Death.

And after winning so many times in the past - if often just barely - the results no longer matter as much as the thrill in seeing the cards he's dealt, the lay of the dice, or watching the wheel spin. Though this time it would have been nice to at least be certain that his friends were truly safe before cashing in his chips.

He stares at Shaw, seeing himself reflected in eyes as dark as a desert sky.

And he watches her pull the trigger.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

 _Click…._

The hammer falls on an empty chamber. Without a change in her stoic expression, Shaw lets her arm fall to her side again.

"And that is how surely your Ms. Shaw has changed sides," declares Greer, as he relieves the young woman of the gun. "If I had wanted you dead, she would have shot you." There's no mistaking the thread of satisfaction lacing his words together.

Reese tips his head to one side, putting as much arrogance as he can into his stare. "And the point of all this?" he asks calmly. Two can play the intimidation game. And he's had at least as much experience as Greer.

"To prove to you that resisting the future is futile; Samaritan's victory is inevitable. And following Harold Finch and his Machine? That will only lead to entropy…decay," replies Greer. "And death!"

Then stepping toward his prisoner with fervor outlined in every movement, the Englishman continues, "But you can still be on the side of success. You can still make a choice! We can convince you to switch your loyalties, just as we have convinced Ms. Shaw here."

The ex-op doesn't respond, keeping his face a blank slate. But whatever the Englishman had planned to say further is interrupted as one of the guards comes forward and whispers into his ear. Greer waves the man away and stares at his prisoner for several seconds before speaking.

"Well. As much as I'd like to continue our titillating conversation, I do have an urgent matter that needs my attention. So I'll leave you to think it over." Greer's smile is but a lift of a lip, the lines in his face like fissures in cold marble. "It's always easier to have a cooperative convert than an uncooperative one. But either way…"

He turns away, motioning to Shaw and the two goons standing guard and as the group troops out of the room, Reese is left in the company of his own thoughts.

Which are surprisingly upbeat…!

So Greer thinks that Shaw is on their side now? Hmm. The man may consider himself omnipotent, but he clearly hasn't had the experience with a Glock as has Shaw. Or he's become so obsessed with his new role he's forgotten any lessons imparted by an old one...as a former agent. After all, like recognizes like...

There is no way Shaw hadn't known the gun was empty. Even if the ex-Control assassin wasn't such a weapons aficionado, her experience – like his own - has given her the ability to calculate just how many bullets remain in a pistol's magazine. The weight in hand can give the count accurate to the last slug!

But if Shaw had been feigning compliance, what did that mean going forward? Can he depend on her to find a way out of this situation…a way that won't result in either of them being tucked under a dirt blanket? Questions to which he will have to await answers.

He looks down at the tie-wraps cutting into the fabric of his suit and grimaces. He doesn't have much choice in the matter.

.

...

.

An hour later Reese hears the door open again. Positioned as he is in the room, he has no line of sight to the entrance, no way of knowing who may have entered. But if someone has come to cut him out of this chair...well, he's ready for them! He tenses his legs in anticipation of launching himself forward.

"So how in the hell did you let yourself get caught?" The familiar – and most welcome – voice reaches him as Shaw moves in view and in one smooth motion crouches down to slice through the tie-wraps with a small knife. "Have you just gotten soft or has that shrink convinced you it's better to die than resort to violence?"

Reese smiles in spite of himself. That's Shaw…no slack for him!

"Good to see you too, Sameen," he replies. "And surprisingly alive...considering the last time I saw you, you were playing out a death wish of your own."

She snorts her response and having removed the bonds from his ankles and arms, moves in behind him to free his hands. "What I did was logical. What you did was stupid!"

He can't keep from continuing to smile at her grumpy response. "How do you know what happened anyway?" he asks, rubbing the feeling back into his wrists.

"Greer's goons. They like to brag about your capture. I gather the only way they got you was because like an idiot you stayed behind and ran out of bullets…and they didn't. Since you're still in one piece I assume you just gave up."

"Yeah. That's about it. But at least Harold and Root got away."

She looks at him but he can't tell whether she's relieved or not, Shaw being even better than he at keeping her emotions in check. Though, as she would quickly point out, it's because she has no emotions…

The two of them move to the door, Shaw silently leading the way and cracking it open just enough to peer into the hallway beyond. The area is quiet, eerily so, enough to make the hairs on his neck stand at attention. Shaw turns back to him.

"Look, I've managed to redirect the cameras in here. But Greer is not going to be gone much longer. The only reason he left you without a guard is that he needs all his men at the moment." She pauses for effect. "Apparently someone rigged the alarms on the other side of the compound... "

Shaw's expression tells Reese all he needs to know about _that_ diversion, as she continues, "He's a cocky bastard and just assumes no one can get out of the place without getting caught."

"And is he right?"

"What do you think?" she smirks. "That I came for you just so you can get snagged again? And if I get caught helping you, I may not survive the next time they play around with my gray matter!" She lifts a large swath of dark hair, revealing a shaved portion underneath.

"Shaw…!"

"Oh, don't worry, Bro! What they did may work on normal people…but I've never had a normal brain…or so I'm told. Who knows? What they messed with may actually be an improvement!"

Reese stares at her, this catwoman. One who has managed to irritate him incessantly and who seems to take such pleasure in tormenting him, from stealing his weapons to competing for Bear's affections. But he begins to see her through new eyes.

With a swift hand signal, Shaw moves into the hallway, Reese close behind. Except for the not-much-better-than-a-butter-knife Shaw used to cut through his bonds, they have no weapons except their bodies and brains. And he's lost count of the number of Samaritan agents in the facility…which is another issue. Just where are they anyway?

Whatever the location, Shaw seems to know her way around what is apparently a huge facility. She chooses one turn after another, occasionally slipping into a room through one entrance, exiting through another. He can only assume that she's following some kind of path in order to stay under Samaritan's radar.

Greer may be a big proponent of surveillance, but he apparently considers his fortress safe enough without needing a camera on every inch of property on the inside. Well, pride goeth before the fall, and all that…

After twenty minutes of slinking through rooms and hallways, she brings them to a large warehouse, and trots toward the end of the vast area to a small door located next to the large overhead rollup. The whole place gives him the creeps, and silence, usually a good thing, now feels like a heavy blanket about to suffocate them both.

"All right. This is it. Go through that door, take an immediate right and hug the wall to the fence. There's a large drainage culvert. Take that and you're out of here." She shoves a folded map into his hands. "I stole this from one of Greer's minions. It's got the camera locations. It'll get you off the property and stay out of Samaritan's sight. After that you're on your own."

"Wait! I can't leave you here alone!" he protests. "Your life is on the line if they find you've helped me escape. You're coming along, or I stay here with you!"

"Not gonna happen," she responds, a rare smile not reaching her eyes. "Tell Root and Harold I'm fine. But I need to stay here. Undercover. And you need to go. Greer is intent on using you to get to Harold - and then he'll kill you."

She pokes a finger into his chest, which he realizes with some affection, is not the first time.

"And you're no good to any of us if you're dead! You guys need someone on the inside to help figure out how to disable Samaritan. _Capisce_? I'll find a way to get intel to you…because if we're going to bring Samaritan down, the end starts here!"

Reese stills for several seconds. Every instinct, all past training, urging him not to leave a team member behind, especially in such a dangerous situation. But he knows she's right. Finch and Root won't like it but they'll have to be satisfied with the knowledge that Shaw is still alive and kicking.

He moves quickly to the exit as Shaw blends back into the shadows of the hanger. He turns at the metal door before heading out, but she's already gone. Shaw's running her own game as usual, doing the loner thing. Still the typical pain in the ass!

But if they ever get out of this mess, he may have to gift her with that sniper rifle she covets so much…the Remington he's got hidden from her.

And on that thought, Reese moves into the silent night…

End


End file.
